


Truth In The Cards

by hornblowerfic_archivist



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-29
Updated: 2006-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornblowerfic_archivist/pseuds/hornblowerfic_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night before Caudebec, fortunes and stories of glory are told.  Bush recalls and retells his time at Trafalgar and revels in his memories of Nelson.  Spoilers for "Lord Hornblower,"  Hornblower series in general.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth In The Cards

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Hornblowerfic.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hornblowerfic.com). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [Hornblowerfic.com collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hornblowerfic/profile).

**The Flame’s great cabin** was hot, stuffy, and smoky, but Bush didn’t mind. He never did, as the fetid air was simply another fact of life aboard ship, and another minor discomfort to be ignored and lived around.

He especially didn’t mind as long as there were lively discussions of sound battle plans, good food, and fine wine. In the case of this night, and in this place, Bush had them all, with the plan of action for the morrow – dangerous as it was -- being the highlight of the evening. What’s more, Bush again had company of good friends, such as the man who designed the battle plan, Sir Horatio Hornblower.

Sir Horatio. Even with the “sir” in front of it, it was odd for Bush to be calling the man by his given name. Odd, yet an honor, not only to Sir Horatio, but to himself for being so acquainted with the man. Bush, despite his rough-hewn exterior and simple nature, was a man driven by formalities and discipline. While Sir Horatio, in his hidden carelessness would sometimes call Bush, “William,” to Bush, Sir Horatio had always been, “Sir,” “Mister Hornblower,” “Captain,” or “Commodore.”

It was the same with Lord Nelson, Bush remembered, who in his time, was also, in Bush’s mind, a brilliant military strategist, and was also called “Sir Horatio.” It was a rare thing for Bush to fall into a reverie of this sort, but, the very thought, the very memory, of Nelson drew from Bush an inward, distant smile tinged with great sadness.

“Captain Bush, sir?” It was the lamplight flashing off Lieutenant Freeman’s smile, more than his words, that drew Bush back into the present. “I do believe that I ought to read your fortune next, as your mind is clearly ripe for it.”

Bush blinked. “Pardon me?”

Freeman chuckled, and handed Bush the deck of cards. “You were thinking of the past just now, a battle, perhaps? Remembering something glorious, I reckon. Indeed, I saw the distant look upon your face, sir.”

Bush thought that Freeman, especially with his long and unruly dark hair, truly must have gipsy blood, and even more so to be able to read his thoughts as such. Bush dropped his head, nodded, and studied his fingers for a moment. “Yes. I was, and it was glorious.”

Moments before, Bush watched carefully as Freeman read Sir Horatio’s fortune. Bush imitated the motions as Freeman previously instructed. He shuffled the cards, divided the deck into three, and pushed the three piles back to Freeman. Freeman began working through the cards, dealing them into three intricate patterns, smiling broadly as he did so.

“These cards shall tell me your past, sir,” Freeman declared, flourishing his hand over a series of cards to the left. “Now, this is interesting,” he pointed. “The Nine of Spades, here, means there was some bad luck in your past, an accident, or a serious injury, or…oh…” Freeman trailed off, hearing the slight scrape of Bush’s wooden leg against the deck. “Well, well, yes,” he said, ruefully, “truth in the cards, sir, truth in the cards.”

Freeman scanned the cards again. “Ah, yes… there it is, there it is, there – it -- is! The mighty King of Diamonds – a fair-haired man of substantial authority. You, sir, were most definitely thinking of a great leader, a Captain, or an Admiral perhaps? Yes! I knew it!” He laughed, and pointed to another card. “Yes, here we are. Oh, the Jack of Clubs. Hmm, this could be either a dark-haired, popular man, or it could mean admiration, or both, actually, as in admiration of you by said dark-haired popular man, sir!

“Nine of Clubs,” Freeman continued, his eyes glittering with otherworldly intensity, “achievement, success -- glory in battle, sir! Ten of Hearts -- minor renown and good news after a difficulty -- your name in the Gazette, possibly, and ah!” Freeman smiled, “This is good indeed!”

“Your name in the Gazette? Well, Bush, that is something!” Sir Horatio chimed in with unveiled sarcasm, as, like before, Hornblower knew that Freeman’s “visions” were, in reality, well-known facts. “Well, it is obvious, isn’t it, Bush? You must have been thinking of our time aboard Renown!” When Bush did not answer, Sir Horatio continued, his tone milder, “Or our battle with the Natividad or…our recapture of the Witch of Endor, perhaps.”

Bush blushed, and his lips twitched into a half-smile. “No, sir, none of those,” he said, quietly. “I was not thinking of the Sutherland either, sir.” Bush recoiled slightly at the sudden fire in Hornblower’s eyes. “Not that it wasn’t a glorious day, sir, because, well, it was, even with everything that happened… it… was.”

“Well, then,” Sir Horatio blurted, “I cannot think of any other great battle we were involved in which would bring you such notoriety.”

Bush sighed. “You, sir, were not at this battle.”

Captain Howard placed his elbow on the table and leaned forward, fascinated, “Fair-haired leader of a man, eh, Bush? I will wager that you were at Trafalgar.” Howard’s dark eyes widened and lit up when Bush did not answer. “Yes! You were! Oh, Bush, you must tell us what it was like, Trafalgar. Tell us what…” Howard paused, his youthful features arranging with an air of reverence and solemnity, “tell us what – he – was like, will you, Bush?”

Freeman gingerly placed the card he was holding onto the table, and by habit, flourished his fingers out atop it. The Five of Hearts. Strange, he thought. Freeman looked from Bush, whose face betrayed mixed feelings of nostalgia and shame, and Hornblower, whose countenance was twisting slightly with what – Freeman looked down at the card again – is it possible? Five of Hearts -- jealousy? He swiftly began gathering the cards. “Perhaps, Captain Howard, sir, we should retire, and allow Captain Bush to regale us with his Trafalgar story another…”

“No!” Hornblower interrupted, “Come now, let us have it, Bush. Do tell us all about -- him. Tell us, Bush -- all about Nelson. You never disappointed Barbara, did you? Certainly you do not want to disappoint the cards?”

“Were you at Trafalgar, Sir Horatio?” Howard asked, in a feeble attempt to dissolve the tension.

Hornblower puffed out an impatient breath. “No, Captain Howard, I was not!” He gritted his teeth as he spoke. “If you had taken the time to review the service record of your commanding officer as any good subordinate should before coming into said officer’s service, you would have known as much and would not be compelled to ask such insolent questions!”

Howard stiffened and blinked. “My apologies, Sir Horatio.”

Hornblower flapped his hands in a nervous dismissal, and the anger on his face seemed to melt away instantly. “No harm done, Captain Howard. I am… I am merely in need of rest for my everworking mind, some good company, and some diversion, that is all.” Hornblower settled back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “That is all.”

Bush smiled, knowing well that such were the methods of Hornblower’s apologies.

“Yes, sir, and I promise, sir,” Howard offered, “to read your service record immediately after tomorrow’s action.”

Hornblower threw his head back and laughed. “That, Captain Howard, is the funniest thing I have heard all day.”

**************

Outside of his command duties, it was always difficult for Bush to put his thoughts into words. Truly, he did not do well in social situations, and quite often, he would find himself stumbling, searching his mind, or allowing himself to slip into long pauses while in conversation or in relaying a story.

However, when it came to recounting his tale of the 21st October 1805, Bush found he was never at a loss. The images and memories were so vivid in his brain, plastered permanently and plainly in his mind, such that the words seemed to flow with a Hornblower-like ease from his mouth.

***************

Bush had counted himself among the lucky ones. Lucky not in the sense that he and his fellow sailors were about to engage in a battle that was shaping up to be of immense proportions. Lucky not in the sense that he, like his fellow sailors, stood with a very good chance of losing life that day, but lucky in the sense of being in the presence of greatness. Bush was not one to think of himself as watching history being made, or to think of things in the long term, but being in that cabin with those officers, and that particular Admiral made him more aware of his place in the world than ever before.

To begin, Bush couldn’t believe he was there. He was not the senior most lieutenant on his ship, the Temeraire, but the first lieutenant, Davis, was left aboard to prepare the men for battle. Davis had originally taken offense that Captain Eliab Harvey did not invite him into the gig and to the meeting with the Admiral, but Captain Harvey had a talent for placating his men. So, Lieutenant Davis was placed in command, and thereby placated, and Bush chosen to accompany Harvey to the Victory.

The Bo’sun, a man that Bush had greeted heartily and knew as Matthews, led Harvey and Bush to the Great Cabin after they came aboard. Upon entering the room, Bush was amazed at the number of officers present. It was obvious that parts of the cabin had already been stricken for battle, as there was no sleeping cabin, and, in fact, no partitions remained. The room, therefore, spanned the entire breadth of the Victory’s stern, which, Bush thought, was immense.

Matthews knuckled his forehead to the Victory’s captain, Thomas Hardy, and announced, “Captain Eliab Harvey and Lieutenant William Bush of Temeraire, come aboard, sir.”

“Ah, yes, thank you Matthews,” a frail, yet powerful voice wafted to Bush’s ears from the end of the long table in the center of the cabin, “the Saucy’s men, always tardy, but forever dependable.” The speaker stood and extended his left hand to Captain Harvey and then, to Bush. Thankfully, Harvey led with example, and shook the man’s hand first, otherwise, Bush knew, he would have forgotten the man’s condition, and worse, would have fumbled with the greeting.

The speaker, Bush saw, had the right sleeve of his elegantly decorated coat pinned at his breast, as there was no right arm to fill it. While all of the other officers had removed their hats, this man kept his on, and what’s more, he wore it athwartships, counter to the current fashion of wearing the bicorne fore and aft. When Bush shook his hand, the man returned the greeting with a force not befitting the thin, wiry figure before him. Perhaps, Bush thought, there was a power in spirit that transcended the physical, for Lord Nelson, for all his sickly, pale looks, had a strength that was obvious from first sight.

“Sit down, please, Harvey, there is a place for you next to Captain Chase down there, I understand you two have met before.” Nelson lowered himself carefully back into the chair, the loss of the arm obviously still having an effect on his sense of balance. Harvey obeyed. “Bush, feel free to join your fellows and, welcome.”

Captains stood and officers leaned in as Nelson revealed his plan. Bush thought Nelson strange in a way, such that he was so very affable, and had an immense amount of trust in his captains. Nelson, unlike other Admirals, such as Pellew, was not so much a fighter, although Bush knew just by glancing at his scarred forehead and blank right eye, that Nelson had seen his share of action in times past. However, Nelson as he was now, was a strategist. He made the plans, shared them with his officers, and allowed the officers to make all decisions necessary to carry out those plans. Such trust, Bush thought, was either brilliant -- or foolhardy.

The plan itself was so brilliant, yet it digressed from all known, and proven naval tactics. As Nelson gave the details, his left hand animatedly tapped on, swished over, and cut across a map set on the table before him. The map was of the bay, and it showed the position of the combined French and Spanish fleets, laid out in a horizontal curve as tradition would require. However, the British vessels were not in a matching curve as Bush would have expected.

Instead, the British fleet was divided into two phalanxes, with the ships lined vertically, perpendicular to the French and Spanish ships. “Here,” Nelson began, with a tap of the finger, “this shall be my line, and this,” another tap, “is the line to be led by my honourable and particular friend, Collingwood, in the Royal Sovereign.” Nelson looked at the assembled captains to ensure understanding.

“The tactic is simple, gentlemen, we must divide the enemy line into three, here,” a tap, “here,” another tap, “ and here. I will push my line up through, here, which will put me in a position to rake the French flagship, and for Captain Harvey and his men to do what they will with it and any other French ship sharing the same sea. This, as you can see,” he pointed again, emphasizing each statement, “will prevent the centre ships, here, and the vanguard, here, from coming to the aid of these ships, here.”

Nelson pushed away from the table and sat back in his chair. “Simple, gentlemen. Divide and conquer. Split the line, and then wreak havoc, bring on a melee, pick them off one… by one… by one. Truly, no captain can do very wrong if he places his ship alongside that of the enemy. Rake them. Board them. Take them as prizes. Force their surrender. I wish nothing more than to see the delicious wave of lowering Tricolours.” he paused, a wicked smile cracking his otherwise placid face.

“Kill them, gentlemen, slaughter them good and proper.”

********************

“So, there I was,” Bush said, “and I do not say this in jest, but there were those of my fellow lieutenants -- and even some captains – who had shed tears when they heard his plan.”

“You are telling me,” Hornblower sneered, “that grown men – Naval officers – blubbered like babies over what – the sheer ingenuity of it? How difficult, really, is it, to formulate a plan like that? Divide them up and go to the slaughter? It is a miracle that the tactic worked.”

“But, Sir Horatio,” Bush said, calmly, “it did work, did it not? In fact, in my estimation, for what it is worth, it worked quite well, actually, as I believe yours shall tomorrow.”

*********************

Bush had been ordered to command the larboard deck crew – to ensure the deck guns were manned properly and fired in the most efficient manner. The gunner in his division, a large Welshman named Lancewale, Bush knew, was the best on the ship. Bush trusted him implicitly, and knew that Lancewale would carry out any order Bush gave him, and do anything to do so. Perhaps, Bush thought, Nelson had that same level of trust in his Captains. Now, Bush understood and admired the man even more, for to Bush, such trust was a difficult thing to give and a difficult thing to earn.

 

 

 

Bush’s battery had completed a successful broadside of the French ship, Redoubtable, and the old bitch was crippled, but she still sailed. In fact, Bush watched in horror as a steady line of men from the French ship began snaking its way across a fallen mast, set upon boarding Victory. Bush growled in frustration as his ship was no longer in a position to come to Victory’s aid. Bush knew that Captain Harvey would have to turn Temeraire, and that when he did so, it would be Lieutenant Parkin’s division who would have their turn at murdering the French whore.

Bush ran to the quarterdeck, to his place beside Captain Harvey. As he did so, something on the Victory’s deck caught Bush’s eye, even at a distance. It glinted gold in the sunlight and Bush cursed. Nelson. While still aboard Victory, Bush had overheard Captain Hardy plead with Nelson not to wear his full dress uniform on deck. Hardy had begged Nelson to shed his epaulets and characteristic hat and chelengk and his orders, and God damn him, Nelson refused. Now, Bush thought, Nelson was a prime target for some musket-bearing French topsman, and Nelson was either foolish, prideful, or he had a wish for death.

Bush said a silent prayer for Nelson’s safety, and raised his glass to his eye. The Redoubtable’s boarding party, thankfully, had been thwarted – obviously by a single carronade shot from the Pucelle. Thank God for Captain Chase, Bush thought, but swallowed hard in disgust as his eye roamed over the bloody pulp and carnage of what were once two dozen Frenchmen scattered over the mast and the decks of both ships.

However, Bush could not cease in his worry for Nelson. Something tugged at him, drew his eye back to the epauletted man standing in full regalia at the quarterdeck, and then drew his eye aloft, into the Redoubtable’s mizzen top, and there – he saw him. The man was dirty, unshaven, and with his lips drawn back, Bush could see he was practically toothless. He was aiming a fouled musket down – down to the Victory’s deck – the quarterdeck – Nelson.

“God damn my eyes!” Bush shouted, “God damn my soul! No!” He choked, “God, no!”

Captain Harvey, who in most circumstances abhorred swearing, turned to Bush with mild irritation. “What is it, man?”

Bush did not answer, as he was transfixed by the scene unfolding within telescope. He wished, prayed, that it was his imagination in the horror of battle, but he knew it wasn’t. He watched, horrified, as the filthy, unworthy French bastard pulled the trigger, and sent a musket ball flying, diving, downwards.

Bush bellowed in outrage as the gentle and handsome man in gold and silver and blue with the white hair and the athwartships hat fell in an undignified heap into Captain Hardy’s arms. Bush wanted to weep, and in fact, he felt the distinct sting behind his eyes, and blinked furtively to keep the flow at bay.

“Bush?” Captain Harvey saw the pained expression on his lieutenant’s face. “Bush, what is it? What has happened?”

Bush, dumbstruck, handed his glass to Harvey, and wordlessly pointed toward Victory.

Harvey, still confused, raised the glass to his eye. As Bush watched, everything about his Captain changed. His face hardened like stone and his body stiffened like oak. His arm whipped down, pulling the glass from his eye in a sharp gesture, and Harvey turned to Bush, disgust, hatred, and sadness slowly leaking out through the newly formed cracks in the façade of Harvey’s face.

“Mister Bush, we will take this ship about now – tactics be damned -- and we shall capture that very ship there…” he pointed at Redoubtable, “as a glorious and rich prize, Mister Bush, and we shall kill every last French bastard aboard. No quarter shall be given – to anyone. Damn the rules of war, do you understand me, Lieutenant?”

Bush cuffed at his eye, nodded, and touched his hat. “Aye aye, sir.”

“Oh, and Bush?”

“Sir?”

“You have my permission to pass the word, Bush. Let the men and the hands know that Nelson has fallen. Stir up the hatred in them, as well. Tell them that the whore-born frogs aboard that ship have killed him – bloody cold murdered him! Death to the Redoubtable, Mister Bush. Death to the Redoubtable, and to any other Frog or Dago who dare get in our way.”

Bush smiled wolfishly and again, touched his hat. “Aye aye, Captain Harvey, sir.”

 

*****************

As Bush’s division had already decimated the Redoubtable’s mainmast, all that was left for Parkin’s men to do was to give fire to the ship’s hull, and destroy at least one of the gun batteries on the starboard side. As always, Parkin’s division was proficient and perfect in its killing, and if Captain Harvey was not so intent upon taking Redoubtable as a prize, they would have scuttled her good and proper.

 

 

Captain Harvey had also given a rather unorthodox order. The ship carried a store of seven-barreled topmast guns, which before, Nelson had forbade use of because of the possibility of their catching the sails on fire. Harvey ordered Matthews to unstore and load the entirety of the topmast guns and send the strongest men of Davis’ division aloft to use the deadly things to clear out the Redoubtable’s deck.

The guns proved their worth. As Davis’ men rained fire and lead down upon the deck, one by one the French aboard the ship, including three of the lieutenants, died or were injured or ran for fear of the horrible English weapons. The guns fully discharged, the men clambered back down, and joined Captain Harvey, Davis, Bush, a full compliment of marines, and a horde of seamen in boarding Redoubtable.

Bush felt the rope chafe against his already calloused hands as he swung from a loose rope over the gap between the two ships. Landing deftly on the deck, he looked first for the location of Captain Harvey, and seeing him safe, pulled the two pistols from within his belt and fired expertly at two mad Frenchmen running pell-mell toward him.

The pistols discharged and useless, he threw them aside, and drew his cutlass. Bush’s famed bloodlust increased a hundredfold upon hearing the tang and swish of his sword against scabbard. The weight of the weapon became added to his own weight, and he swung mightily, cutting down man after man in red hats and blue neck cloths, and slashed with insane ferocity at every tricolour rosette he saw.

The smoke was thick, as fires had erupted belowdecks, and the noise of pistol fire and musket bang and sword clash and cannon blast was deafening, but Bush filtered it all out. There was only him. There was only him and his captain and his sword, and his enemy, and the blood pulse pounding in his ears.

Bush swore, “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard, bloody bastard,” with every swing of his blade, and grunted ferally each time he yanked his sword free from flesh and bone. Bush knew he was fearsome in battle, knew he was large and blood-soaked, and imposing and brutal, and he relished it.

And then he saw him.

Bush was right. The man was filthy and disgusting and toothless and most of all, unworthy, and the sight of him made Bush’s nose twitch and his lip curl and his eyes blaze with hatred-filled fire. What was worse, Captain Harvey, who was fighting Redoutable’s captain, had his back to the man, and Bush saw the man rush at Harvey with sword raised and naught but malicious intent.

Bush bellowed, his voice grizzled with rage, “Get away from him!” He hefted his blade, and ran at the man full-on. The beast of a man turned, saw Bush’s horrifying figure charge at him and, stood, frozen near mid-stride. “Bastard! C’mere and fight me, damn you!” Bush shouted, dropped his sword, and lunged at the man, bolting him bodily against the side rail. Bush grasped the scrawny thing two-handed around the throat. “Fight me, you frog bastard!”

As Bush squeezed, he thought the foul-smelling beast actually looked somewhat like a frog, and he laughed at that. The Frenchman, hearing Bush’s laugh, and feeling the slight release of Bush’s hands, thought Bush would let him go. He thought, for a moment, that this was some big joke, or that this brute of an Englishman didn’t have it in him after all to kill him, and he, too started laughing.

Hearing this, Bush’s face hardened, and twisted with pure, vengeful malice. Death to the Redoutable… “You,” Bush sneered, “have nothing to laugh about, frog,” and with that, and with the fear creeping over the reddened face, Bush knew the frog wouldn’t fight. In spite of this, in spite of the Frenchman’s impending surrender, Bush could not help himself, could not prevent his hands from contracting of their own accord.

His hands, with this seeming will of their own, spasmed together, exerting opposing pressure upon the flesh and bone beneath them. Bush felt the beast’s neck bone dislocate and snap clean from his head. “Enjoy yourself now, yes. Laugh all you want, bastard -- in hell,” Bush released his hands, heaved the lifeless body over the rail, straightened, turned, and looked around.

The deck was quiet, and then Bush heard the words, as if from a distant place, “The ship is yours, Mister Bush. Take command, and, if so ordered, take her into any English port and await further instruction.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The response was automatic.

Bush peered up at the flag rigging, and understood. The French flag had been stricken. The ship truly was his. “There you are, my Lord,” Bush said, heavenward, still breathless, “a wave and bob of a falling Tricolour, just as you so desired. Death, my Lord, to the Redoubtable.”

********************

Hornblower sat, eyes uncharacteristically wide, aghast at Bush’s story. “I…I never knew you had it in you, Bush,” he said, awestruck, “to kill like that… I know of your uncanny abilities in battle with a cutlass or a pistol, but,” Hornblower swallowed, “…to snap the man’s neck with your bare hands?”

“Honestly, sir, I never knew I did, either, but,” Bush said gravely, “I do not believe I could have lived with myself any better had I suffered that frog to live. I could not have allowed him to return to Napoleon with glorious stories of being the man who killed Nelson. All I could think about, truly, was that horrible foul, godless man kneeling before Napoleon and receiving a flimsy golden laurel, not to mention a commission, and… I… I could not permit that.”

Hornblower’s lips curled into a slight crooked smile. “You also never told me you had prize money from Trafalgar.”

Bush let a single chuckle erupt from within his chest. “I did not, Sir Horatio. Gain prize money, that is. Redoubtable sank in the storm next day, and while we also captured Fogeux, she sank as well.”

“Hard luck, sir,” Freeman said, his brow furrowed. “So, after all that, you came away, really, with nothing.”

Bush smiled and shook his head. “Nothing? I would not say that. I reckon I came away from Trafalgar with riches only a few men could claim.” He looked over at Hornblower who was now sitting quietly, staring at the table, one arm crossed over his chest and the hand of the other covering his chin and mouth.

Howard yawned broadly and fished in his pocket for his watch. “Gentlemen, we have a great deal of work to do tomorrow at Caudebec, and I, for one, need to return to my ship and give orders before I retire.”

Bush nodded. “Agreed, as do I. Good night, and good luck on the morrow.” He pushed back his chair, rose, and extended his hand to Hornblower. “Good night, sir, and thank you.”

Hornblower stood and clasped his two hands around Bush’s. “Ha’hm,” he cleared his throat, “and to you, Bush,” he said, stiffly, squeezing Bush’s hand, “I… I shall see you in the morning.”

Freeman, still seated, gave a slight sigh of protest. “But, sir! I have not yet read Captain Bush’s future!”

Bush laid a thick hand on Freeman’s shoulder. “Thank you, Mister Freeman, but, no.” He grinned, and patted Freeman on the back. “I would rather leave tomorrow -- my future -- to chance, and remain as ignorant of it as I have always been.”

Freeman smiled, and nodded. “Perhaps -- it is for the best, sir.”

Freeman dallied for a moment after Hornblower, Bush, and Howard said their good-byes and left the cabin. He began gathering the cards, first from the group representing Bush’s past, then those of his present, and, as he drained the last of his wine, he set upon the pattern depicting Bush’s future. Freeman swallowed the wine with difficulty, and felt the blood drain from his head when he saw the prominent, center card.

The Ace of Spades.

“Good God! No, please, no,” he closed his eyes, imploring to all that was Holy that the cards, this time, would be proven false. He sighed, and invoked the only prayers he knew. “God be with you, Captain Bush, and God help sailors -- on a night like this."


End file.
